Of Cabbages and Kings
by MissTempleton
Summary: Sequel to "International Relations". With the London case successfully concluded, Jack secures a brief leave from Melbourne and Phryne decides they will go to the races to celebrate. Nothing can possibly go wrong, apart from the odd speeding ticket - surely?
1. Prologue

**Prologue – Career Planning by Telegram**

TO: CooperW, Melbourne

Documents confirmed received and correct re McCullum convictions STOP Request two weeks holiday before return to Melbourne STOP Please note leave allowance untouched since 1925 STOP RobinsonJ, London

TO: RobinsonJ, London

Thanks again for excellent work STOP permission granted STOP try not to get into trouble STOP Mrs Cooper says Miss Fisher must visit her STOP would require Miss Fisher presence on correct continent STOP CooperW, Melbourne

TO: CooperW, Melbourne

Have no jurisdiction here so trouble unlikely beyond speeding fines STOP Please thank Mrs Cooper STOP Will endeavour to secure Miss Fisher presence on correct continent STOP wish me luck STOP going racing STOP RobinsonJ, London


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"Phryne, I have the clothes."

"Jack, you do not have the clothes."

"Phryne, you provided an entire steamer trunk with three times as many clothes as I have ever needed in my life. I have the clothes."

"Jack, you have never been to Ascot. You do not have the clothes. Now, be quiet, and let Mr Poole take your inside leg."

The slightly-built tailor continued in his work as though the disagreement taking place over his head was simply not happening. Jack gritted his teeth and gave up on an argument he clearly was not going to win. What on earth was morning dress, anyway? He'd worn nothing at all most mornings for the past couple of weeks and found the arrangement highly satisfactory; chiefly because Phryne hadn't been wearing anything either.

He stopped that thought in its tracks, given the likely response his body would make to the memory and the proximity of one of Savile Row's pre-eminent tailors to his waistband. Focussing instead on the event they were planning for, he asked, "So what's different about Ascot? I've been to the races loads of times. Never had to go to a tailor first."

"It's not called the Sport of Kings for nothing, Jack." Now that she was getting her own way in the sartorial stakes, Phryne was all smiles again. "The sport is wonderful fun, of course, but Ascot's as much about the social scene. Everyone goes. Including, occasionally, the Royal Family."

Jack humphed. He couldn't do a great deal more, given what Mr Poole was doing with his measuring tape.

"What do you think, Mr Poole? Is there any chance of Jack having something by Wednesday?" Phryne turned her most pleading expression on the tailor. Jack knew that look. It was the one which immediately preceded disbelief. Then cold fury.

Fortunately for Mr Poole, the full gamut wasn't required.

"Indeed, Miss Fisher. We have a pig that'll work beautifully. I can have it ready for final fitting tomorrow afternoon."

It was clearly the right answer for Phryne, judging by her reaction; but Jack was disturbed. Last time she'd tried to put him in fancy dress, at least it was a Roman soldier. Porcine was not the look he had ever thought he'd unleash on English society. Especially not on the King.

Phryne knew exactly what he was thinking, and giggled deliciously.

"A pig, Jack, is a garment that another customer has had made and then not been able to collect for whatever reason. Marvellous news for us, because Mr Poole wouldn't normally be able to help us out before the flat season was over."

His relief was palpable, and it took a long and rather boozy lunch at Simpson's to restore his faith in womankind. And a nap. Quite a long, active nap.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Knowing Phryne as he did, Jack was a little taken aback by her dress for the races. Had he been asked to guess, he would have hazarded that she'd pick something skimpy and sporty; instead of which, her gown could have given a nun's habit a run for its money. A dreamy confection of peacock blues and greens, she teamed it with a feathered hat on the same theme.

"It's Ascot, Jack. There are rules." She looked him up and down. "And I have to say, you are obeying them to the letter."

He turned and faced the cheval mirror behind him; she wandered over to stand by him, and they regarded their collective effect. Jack tried on his topper, and cocked his head. Cockily.

"I think I need a monocle."

Phryne snorted.

"I think that's a marvellous idea, my darling, especially if it means you can find the winners in the race card?"

"I won't need a monocle for that," he said nonchalantly. "I love horses. As long as we can go to the parade ring and see them, I'll be happy and I can guarantee" (he looked her firmly in the eye) "I will win more than you."

Her eyes lit with the challenge. "Oh, I can do better than that - we'll be with the Owners and Trainers, Jack. I've cleverly acquired a small part of the fore left hoof of one of the outsiders in the three-thirty; so we can look at the horses from inside the ring if we want to." She turned her head to look him straight in the eye. "And I'm not a bad judge of horseflesh either, Detective Inspector."

Their gaze held for a moment, battle lines drawn; then his eyes softened, and he leaned in to place his lips gently on hers. Accepting her blessing, Phryne's eyelids fluttered closed. In the weeks since they had first given in to their heartstrings' irresistible pull, she had been discovering a new side to Jack, and to herself; his confidence in her regard made him happier than she had ever seen him, while her naturally generous spirit delighted in the opportunities to show him new worlds – both socially and (decidedly) antisocially in the privacy of her boudoir.

Pulling away, their eyes locked for another golden moment, and then Phryne turned away.

"Kitty?" she called, striding through her Chelsea townhouse.

"Yes, miss?" the girl replied. As she scurried up the stairs from the kitchen, she straightened her apron carefully. Phryne smiled warmly at her, reflecting again what a transformation she had undergone in a few short weeks from streetwalker to smart domestic servant; while Kitty thanked her Almighty Lord every night for the time that she was almost run over by the wondrous Miss Fisher.

"Kitty, we're just off. We won't be back until late, and will probably dine out, so don't wait up. Have you got any plans?"

"I thought I might go to the pictures, miss. Me and a couple of the other girls were going to have a cup of tea and then a bit of a treat." She smiled happily.

"Then I hope you have a lovely time. Is the car here yet, do you know?"

"Think it might be, Miss Fisher – there was _such_ a noise a minute ago, I thought it was the Second Coming or summat!" she giggled.

"Good Oh!" cried Phryne, and turned to see Jack descending the stairs. "Jack, we're off – the car's here."

"Car?" he enquired. "Are we getting a lift?"

"No, it's just us," she grinned mischievously. "And Sid's lent me something to suit the occasion."

She strode across the hall and pulled the front door wide. When he came to stand at her shoulder, and saw what was waiting at the kerbside, he put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his feet.

"A loan, is it?" he asked quietly. "Tell me, what is it that you've got on Sid that means he will deliver a motorbike at 6am and a Rolls Royce at all?"

"Now, Jack, you know better than to ask" she responded archly. Glancing in the mirror, she pinned her hat more firmly on her head, grabbed the clutch bag containing a roll of money, keys, lipstick and her pearl handled revolver from the hall stand, and skipped down the steps.

"Come on!" she cried gleefully.

Jack exchanged a weary look with Kitty, who was standing in jaw-dropped amazement at the door; then, pulling his topper on more firmly, he followed Phryne to the car.

He didn't bother to offer to drive.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Phryne pulled the Rolls to a halt, hauled on the brake and sighed blissfully. Jack relaxed his right leg which had been braced against the footwell for the past few miles of countryside, in an effort to avoid being thrown out of the car on corners, and sighed with relief. Then took her hand and kissed it.

"Ready to go racing, Miss Fisher? Or have you sated your need for speed on the journey down?" She grinned cheekily.

"Detective Inspector, I've barely begun. We have a friend to find first, though." She paused, and gave him a stern look.

"I'm giving you fair warning, Jack. Max is A Friend." He raised innocent eyebrows and followed her towards the track and stables.

"MAX!" was the next thing he heard. To be fair, he qualified with most of the population of the racecourse and adjacent village in that. And possibly Surrey. Phryne had clearly found her friend.

He watched as she sprinted and launched herself into the arms of a morning-suited Adonis who was perhaps a little taller than he was. And smiled. Lovingly.

Adonis swung her round as though she was a five year old on a fairground ride. Jack continued smiling. Lovingly.

Adonis planted her a smacking kiss on the mouth. Jack's smile became a little …. Fixed.

Adonis rested her on the ground and admired Jack's Phryne with joy. No, not joy. Proprietorial satisfaction. Jack's smile vanished altogether.

Phryne stroked Adonis' upper arms with excitement. Jack's expression in response to her excitement was … jaded.

Eventually, Phryne turned to beckon Jack into Adonis' glorious light. Jack reminded himself that the approved process was Left Foot – Right Foot – Left Foot – Right Foot and arrived successfully in the Firmament.

"Jack, this is Max Greenall, trainer. Max, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson."

Adonis – no, sorry, Max – stuck out a confident hand. With a significant downward slant, as Max's height was subtly masked by his breadth, and he was even dwarfing Jack's nigh-on six foot. Guardsman?

"Detective Inspector! Delighted to meet you. I think one of my men was a Robinson, from Yorkshire? Yorkshire Robinsons?"

Guardsman.

"Er, no, Victoria Robinsons – I'm over from Australia" Jack simpered apologetically as his hand was engulfed in a mighty fist.

"Ah! Then welcome to England. Brought back the loaf of bread, hah hah, what?" Jack's teeth were starting to grind together.

"Yes," he replied, straight faced. "But I'm going back there soon, so I'll be sure to pinch another one."

This sally was rewarded with a roar of laughter from Greenall and a sharp look from Phryne. Jack returned the look, and raised his eyebrows. _What do you expect when you introduce me to a buffoon?_

Nose in the air, Phryne turned back to her new toy. The way in which she was now clinging to his arm was little short of nauseating.

"Max, did you bring the badges?"

"Yes, yes, absolutely, here you are," he reached into his pocket and drew out four pieces of card threaded on to ribbons. Phryne seized them gleefully, and separating out two, turned to Jack.

"Here you are, Jack," she stood rather closer than necessary to pin them carefully to his lapel. Smoothing it down, she looked up into his eyes and smiled wickedly. "Access all areas", she whispered.

"I need a badge for that now?" he whispered back, smiling slightly.

Taking his arm, she reached for Max with her other hand, who proffered an elbow agreeably.

"Right, let's go and look at some horses, gentlemen!"


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

By the time the three thirty came up on the race card, Phryne and Jack were well into the swing of things, and Jack winning slightly more. With Max engrossed in managing the many runners he had brought that day, Jack's equanimity was largely restored. He didn't choose to ask for the history of Max and Phryne's friendship.

"The next one's easy for me – I'm just going to back Limoncello, that's the horse I've got a tiny share in," announced Phryne. "For a place, anyway, I don't think she'll win."

"True enough," Jack agreed, watching the mare pace steadily around the ring. "Lovely lines, though. I'm sticking with the favourite" he said, pointing out a temperamental roan, giving her lad great trouble keeping her on the track around the parade ring. "Raspberry Fool – not the most inspiring name, mind you."

Bets placed with the bookies, they procured a glass of champagne and settled at the rail to watch the race.

The start was a little delayed – Raspberry Fool clearly had some very firm ideas about what were and were not acceptable requests from her jockey, and lining up for the start was only undertaken grudgingly. However, they were soon off, and the short sprint was over almost as soon as it had begun.

Phryne was thrilled. Jack was mystified. Raspberry Fool had trailed in at the rear of the pack, while Limoncello achieved a very respectable and hard fought second place. They went to the unsaddling enclosure so that Phryne could congratulate her clever mare. As they arrived, there was something of an altercation going on. The roan's jockey had dismounted, and was gesticulating furiously at a man in impeccable morning dress.

"I tell you, I don't know! There was nothing there, that's all – I gave it everything I had, and she just didn't respond!" he shouted in exasperation. "Take it up with Sholto if you like, I've got another race to run." The roan was led away, markedly calmer than she had been before, and her owner stormed after them towards the stables. Jack's curiosity was piqued.

"Phryne, I'm just going to wander down to the stables. Shall I see you back at the parade ring?" She agreed cheerfully, gaze focused on her equine investment.

When he didn't reappear before the next race, she was disturbed. He was so determined to review the mounts before they ran that it was odd he should turn down the chance this time. When the rest of the community left the parade ring, she was left alone, looking around anxiously.

"Can I help at all, miss?" Looking round, she saw a young policeman, clearly detailed to Keep the Peace at one of racing's most high profile events.

"Thank you, constable, but I don't think so," she replied. "It's not a lost child, it's a grown man who's perfectly capable of looking after himself. It's odd, though, that he hasn't met me where he said he would."

She pondered, and for no reason she could explain, felt suddenly very worried indeed.

"On the other hand …. I might just go and check the stables – that's where he was going. Would you perhaps join me, constable?"

She had already started walking briskly, and the young man had to jog to catch up with her. As soon as he did, she started to jog too, her beautiful heels apparently causing no problem at all as she picked up pace. By the time she got to the stables, she was running flat out.

As she and the policeman rounded the corner of the stables, they almost stumbled over a body.

Two bodies.

One was of a small man, in the universal uniform of stablehands. What was less universal was the pitchfork pinning him bodily to the pile of muck.

The other body was Jack Robinson's.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Phryne had far too much courage to do anything so silly as fainting. On the other hand, she had never known fear like that which engulfed her as she fell to her knees by Jack's side, a strange hollowness in the pit of her stomach. She called his name, begging him to talk to her. Her hands ran over his head, arms, back. The relief, when he moved his head was indescribable.

"What …." he muttered.

"Stay there, Jack." As he turned his head, she saw that the side that had been on the ground was badly bruised. He'd clearly been attacked and knocked down.

The policeman, meanwhile, had moved as far as possible from the stables while still remaining in sight of the body, and blew his whistle shrilly. Two further officers soon joined him at a run, and with swift understanding and efficiency of movement, set about securing the site and calling on reinforcements. Within a matter of minutes, the Clerk of the Course was on the scene, face pale as he took in the disaster that had unfolded.

"We're going to need you to cancel the remaining races, sir. And request anyone who had access to the stables to remain behind for questioning."

He groaned, but acquiesced – there was little else he could do.

Within a couple of hours, the stables was a hive of activity that had little to do with its equine residents; and Phryne, with relief, saw a very welcome familiar face.

"Chief Inspector! How very glad I am to see you," she exclaimed as Alastair Warren turned from speaking to one of his officers.

"Phryne! What on earth …? And Jack, what in God's name happened to you?"

"We're still trying to work that out, Alastair" he said wearily. They had managed to find a seat on some hay bales, and Jack was nursing a cup of tea that Phryne had managed to procure. A young constable had apologetically taken his fingerprints, at which Phryne had insisted on hers being taken too. "I could have been anywhere, Constable – you don't know when the crime was committed, do you?" she pronounced, unarguably.

Over a hundred stable lads, trainers, jockeys and owners were being questioned in various corners, some more amenably than others. The phrase "Do you know who I _am_?" had come out so often that one of the sergeants darkly suggested that perhaps the owners should wear hospital tags instead of Royal Enclosure badges – "Putting on a top hat affects the brain, I reckon, they're all forgetting who they are" he said sarcastically.

"Alastair, do you think we'll be much longer?" Phryne asked. "You know I wouldn't pester, but Jack's pretty much all in." He nodded in understanding.

"Let me check with my man here. I'll be back as soon as I can." Warren surveyed the yard and located the senior officer, marching off to buttonhole him. Phryne watched him in hope. They had worked together so well on the McCullum case – surely he would be able to ease their way a little from here?

He was having a discussion with the detective in charge, but it wasn't going smoothly. They argued, and then left together to go into the makeshift operations room that had been set up in a tackroom.

A few minutes later, Warren returned, a sickly expression on his face.

"Jack – Phryne – I'm so very sorry." His tone was sympathetic, but firm.

"There was only one set of prints on the pitchfork – a very good, clear set. The trouble is, they're Jack's. We have to take him in."


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Phryne was suddenly very, very cold. Mechanically, she nodded. "You have to do your job, Alastair, I know that. You're wrong, and it'll be harder to work out why with Jack locked up; but I'm going to find out who really did this." It pained Warren that she clearly regarded anything his own team might do in that regard would be worse than useless.

She turned to Jack, whose eyes were now closed in resignation. He rose to his feet and tossed the mug of tea onto the hay.

"Come on then, Alastair, let's get it over with. Frankly, the way my head is right now, I'll be happy with a cold flagstone floor as long as it's quiet."

"Hang on, Jack" Phryne held his arm, having helped him up. She ran off to Limoncello's stable, and with a brief apology to the horse, helped herself to the blanket lying over the door. Returning to the two policemen, she shook it out, and put it round Jack's shoulders.

"This will have to do for now. I'll be back first thing in the morning with a change of clothes and quite possibly a lawyer. Ascot police station, Chief Inspector?" her tone to Warren was civil but chilly. She was already taking sides, and he was on the wrong one.

"Yes, Miss Fisher. I will tell my people to co-operate with you as much as possible."

He turned his back for a moment, as he saw their heads come together. Her hand brushed Jack's cheek, and she kissed him gently.

"I'll have you out before you know it, Jack. Get some rest."

He essayed a half smile which didn't quite reach his eyes and followed Warren to the police car.

Phryne followed their departure with icy-cold demeanour, and then looked around the rest of the yard. Spotting her quarry, she approached him.

"Max. Come here. Playtime's over, we've got work to do."

"Phryne!" her gentle giant loomed over her. "Of course, anything I can do. Where's Jack?"

"He's just been arrested as a suspect for the murder of that stable lad. To the best of my knowledge, murder is a hanging offence in this country?" she said in a voice of flint.

Max nodded, eyes widening.

"So you and I are going to get him released as soon as possible. I'll explain. Pay attention."


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Twenty minutes later, Phryne and Max separated. To say Max was happy with his lot was definitely overstating the case; but he'd never seen Phryne like this. The cheerful flamboyance was simply shelved. Her inimitable style had become humourless analysis. She was taking it seriously, and so, therefore, must he.

He worked his way steadily through the remaining witnesses, gathering information in the most casual fashion possible. Really? Gosh. And when …? Oh. Extraordinary. Every so often he shuffled into a corner to write grubby notes on a crumpled sheet of paper. He could have recited faultlessly the race record of every one of his string for the past three seasons at least, and probably more; but he was less confident of recalling details to Phryne's satisfaction, and something about her demeanour suggested accurate recall might be worthwhile pursuing.

Phryne climbed back into the Rolls, and turned its nose to Chelsea. She drove efficiently but with only half her mind on the job; the straight-six engine ate up the miles, and she churned ideas in her head as she went.

She had a luxury the police did not – she could rule out the idea that Jack had killed the stablehand. What else did she have to include in her knowledge to date? He'd headed down to the stables after the odd result in the 3.30. He'd seen something. What was it? Was it that which had him attacked?

Tumbling ideas in her head, she failed to reach any satisfactory conclusions before she reached home, and parked the car in the mews to the rear of the house. Stumbling into the house, she threw off her clothes, and set an alarm clock before landing face first on a pillow that still carried Jack's unique scent.

Six hours later, she lifted her head from the pillow and switched off the alarm before it rang. She hadn't slept, head whirling with the Ascot murder, and Jack's plight.

Kitty was, mercifully, already awake. Astonished to see her mistress up so early, she was distraught at the news Phryne bore.

"Miss, what can I do? Mr Jack" (the name she'd come up with for him) "can't be guilty. How do we get him out?"

Phryne smiled gratefully. So, that made three people ranged in Jack's corner. She'd win yet.

"You can do a great deal, Kitty. To start with, if I could have some of that coffee I will worship the feet you walk on for ever more. I don't feel like eating, but it could be a long day – can you do me a piece of toast? Then, I need you to pack a picnic basket for Mr Jack. I'll have this, then go and pack some clothes and shaving things for him, so that at least he can feel human. But if you can find some of that apple pie we had the other night that he loved so much – I think this would be the day to let him polish off the rest. And a flask of coffee. I'll be leaving in the Vauxhall in half an hour."

Kitty nodded in response to each of these demands; and before Phryne had finished speaking, was slicing a piece of bread to toast.

Phryne stood, a few minutes later, and confirmed to herself that – as much as they could be in the circumstance – her batteries were recharged and she was ready for battle. She left the kitchen to don appropriate costume.

Shortly afterwards, she descended the stairs, Jack's elderly suitcase in her hand. Kitty looked up, and the sight made her catch her breath.

This was no Woman In Mourning. Phryne wore pillar-box red, sharply tailored. Her lashes were immaculately lacquered and her lips matched her dress. Seeing Kitty's reaction, Phryne gave a wintry smile.

"Off to war, Kitty! Got that hamper ready?"

"Yes, miss!" The girl snatched up the basket and followed her mistress out to the car, stowing it neatly behind the seats.

"I don't know if I'll be back tonight, Kitty, but don't worry – if you don't hear from me, it will only be because I'm making progress. I'll telephone if I get the chance. Cross your fingers and pray for me!"

Fishtailing out of the gateway to the mews, the car was gone.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Working her way through the dawn light of West London, Phryne found her thoughts more collected. Two things particularly had her attention. One, why did Jack head down to the stables; and two, how could his prints arrive on the pitchfork?

The first she could find out as soon as she saw him, but the second was a tougher call, and would need Max's work. It could only have been after the kill, surely? Otherwise, how could the prints be as clean as Warren claimed they were, without even a smudge on impact?

She was looking for someone large, and strong enough to hold up her six foot tall, athletic inamorata while pressing his hands to the pitchfork handle.

An image of Max Greenall came into her mind's eye, and was … almost immediately … dispatched.

With the roads empty at that time of the morning, she was in Ascot before eight. Asking the way of the milkman, she found the police station and parked, with no reservations whatsoever, in a space marked "Reserved".

Marching into the station, picnic basket in one hand and suitcase in the other, she planted both firmly on the ground before the desk and barked at the startled constable.

"The Honourable Phryne Fisher, Detective. Here to see Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, who I understand you are currently holding. You have been informed by Chief Inspector Alastair Warren of Scotland Yard that I am expected, and that I have to be offered every opportunity to converse with my client. Where is he?"

She stalked after the hapless policeman, who fumbled his keys before opening the door to a cell. When he opened it for her, she planted her two burdens inside the door, before stepping back outside for a moment. Looking him firmly in the eye, she slid the peephole shut over the door.

"A breach of client confidentiality is not worth your job, young man," she informed him imperiously. He nodded repeatedly and only waited to see her pull the cell door behind her before scurrying away to make a telephone call.

Phryne leaned against the wall by the door, relaxed her shoulders, crossed one silken leg over the other and said,

"Hello, Jack".


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Jack's head hadn't stopped throbbing all night. His confused thoughts had been a muddle of horses, pitchforks, shouting faces, Phryne, form guides, stable lads, Phryne, dung heaps, Phryne, Phryne ….

And then, as he sat awkwardly on his iron bed, with his head against the cool of the wall to try to reduce the swelling and his eyes closed, he was aware of a disturbance. Then a clanking of keys, and some muttered words. Then he opened his eyes just a slit … and there she was. She'd just turned up. In his cell. Because that was bound to be the next thing that happened. And she said hello, in that way she had, so it must indeed be her.

He opened one eye. She was still there. By God, she looked good in red.

Then she wasn't there anymore, because she was sitting right beside him and she had the side of his face that wasn't bruised on her shoulder, and the other side seemed to have something blissfully soft and cool laid against his aching temple, and by God that was good, too.

Then she moved slightly and he felt her lips softly on his, and he hoped that God was still listening because by now the thanks were coming thick and fast.

For quite a long time, nothing else happened; just cool cloth, and kisses, and sweet nothings, and the past eighteen hours were almost feeling like the correct price to have paid for this version of heaven.

"Jack?" she whispered.

"Hmmn?" He decided he would respond as long as she would carry on doing all the things she was doing for the foreseeable future.

"Next time you want to go and look around a stables, take me with you?"

He almost laughed, but it hurt his head, so he winced instead. And smiled a bit.

"You were in love with another woman at the time, I seem to recall," he muttered.

That got the most delicious chortle. "Now you know, Jack, that's something I've not actually tried. But thank you for the suggestion. I will take it under advisement, even if the woman concerned happens not to have four very serviceable hooves, only one of which I own."

She continued, "However, in the meantime, I would like to help you shave and change. In whatever order you choose, but both are going to happen. I have also brought coffee and apple pie. And whatever else Kitty saw fit to put in that basket."

There was bound to be a cost. That said, he had rapidly fallen out of love with morning dress; he was going to stick by the idea that his and Phryne's original dress code for the pre-noon hours was the most sensible. On the assumption that she hadn't miraculously turned his cell into her boudoir (and the borders between the two were become steadily less noticeable), though, he supposed he should put on something more sensible; and certainly something with a less constricting collar would be a relief. He didn't know what had happened to his topper, which was a shame. He'd become fond of it.

With a combination of coaxing, bullying and brute force, Phryne managed to exchange his morning dress for a more manageable combination from his own Melbourne wardrobe, and carefully knotted a tie in a fashion that would hide the undone button at his collar. While he was still stripped to the waist, she opened the door and commanded a bowl of warm water from her minion on the front desk, and used it carefully and painstakingly to shave him.

She then unpacked Kitty's basket, and poured him warm coffee and fed him apple pie; after which, he was finally able to open both eyes, look at her, and answer her questions.

It had, she reflected, only taken a couple of hours. It was worth the effort, though. By the time she left (promising to return as soon as possible, though perhaps it would not be till the following morning) she had the chronology of what little he could recall, and some new, and very puzzling facts. And the bruise on his temple, now purple, was showing remarkable similarity to the shape of a length of wood a couple of inches across – such as, say, the shaft of a pitchfork.

Phryne jumped back in the Vauxhall, to drive to Max's stables near Epsom; Jack turned back to the picnic basket with renewed interest.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Around midday, the door of Jack's cell opened again, and in walked Alastair Warren.

"Jack – how are you feeling?" he asked, noting the change of clothes and the picnic basket. The early visitor he'd been informed of had clearly made good use of the intervening hours. "How's the head?"

"Responding well to an ice pack, but I doubt it's improving my good looks much," Jack responded ruefully.

"Come through to the interview room, would you?" Warren requested. "We've got your statement typed up, so I need you to read it and sign it if you're happy with it."

Jack reflected that "happy" had taken on a rather different guise in the last twenty-four hours, but followed the Chief Inspector out of the cell, and up the corridor to the front of the station. There, the interview room door stood wide; the duty sergeant was waiting by the table, on which lay a single sheet of paper and a pen.

Jack took his seat, and scanned the words carefully; then, uncapping the fountain pen, scribbled a signature and date at the foot. Warren held out his hand for the pen.

"Thanks Jack," he paused. "You're free to go – though I'd rather you didn't leave the country quite yet, if you don't mind."

Jack looked up sharply, wincing as he was reminded that rapid head movements were a bad idea. "Go?"

Warren smiled grimly.

"We got the details from the post mortem this morning," he said. "It's plain that the pitch fork was driven in slightly from the left, probably by someone whose left hand was higher on the shaft than his right – that's the way we found your prints and it ties in with the evidence we have. We're looking primarily, therefore, for a left handed person. You were always, despite the evidence, an unlikely candidate for this murder, and you've just signed your statement with your right hand. I take it you _are_ right handed?"

Jack nodded wordlessly.

"That being the case, we have to assume that whatever your involvement in last night's business, you didn't murder that lad. As I say, I'm asking you not to leave the country – in fact, if you could stay around London, that would be best. For now, I'm happy to have one of my men drive you back there. By the look of that head, I don't think Miss Fisher would forgive me for making you try to navigate the journey on your own."

Given that Jack's legs when he stood appeared slightly cotton-wool, he owned that Warren's assessment was correct. The sergeant was standing at the door, with the battered suitcase and picnic basket at his feet.

"Oh, and Jack?" he turned back at Warren's call.

"I know it's too much to expect you and Miss Fisher to keep out of my investigation – but please, if you find anything, will you keep me informed? And do try to avoid any more felonies – I _will_ have to lock you up if you accidentally come into possession, say, of stolen bank documents."

At this, Jack did smile; and was still smiling as the police car drew away from the station, carrying him back to Chelsea. And hopefully, before long, Phryne.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Phryne had plenty of time for reflection as she covered the miles to Max's yard. Guilt wasn't an experience with which she was exactly familiar; she'd found Dot's Catholic conscience mostly inexplicable. Of late, though, she was starting at least to recognise Regret writ large. She knew that Jack had become important to her; she knew that he occupied many of her waking thoughts. She knew that she would get him out of jail, and soon, by whatever means necessary - even if it meant giving Alastair Warren a headache and sprinting to the nearest airfield, to plot a course for the Americas. No matter what, Jack wasn't going to be allowed to hang.

She was losing sleep, though, over what she hadn't said. Beyond a few thoughtful remarks early in their relationship, she hadn't really told him how she valued him. She'd told him he had a heart as deep as the Pacific Ocean, but she had never confessed having heard his whispered words that afternoon in bed at the Savoy, when he'd thought her sleeping and committed that heart to her. She knew he loved her. Because she hadn't known how to handle the information, she'd said nothing.

And he thought her brave. To one of her integrity, that grated.

When she got him out of that prison cell, he wasn't going to be left guessing.

She was in Epsom by lunchtime, and caught Max just as he was coming back with his second string from training on the Downs. When he caught sight of her, he waved cheerily.

"Phryne! Dressed to kill as ever!" he exclaimed.

She smiled with a little of her former humour. "Perhaps not the most serendipitous association, Max, but I know what you mean. I've come to find out how you got on last night. What gossip did you get?"

"Come into the house," he invited, "I need coffee."

Seated at the table in a messy kitchen at a table piled high with paperwork, Phryne asked for tea and sipped it gratefully.

"So, what have you got, Max?"

"Hang on …" Max rifled through his pockets, eventually coming out with a crumpled piece of paper. "Not a huge amount, considering the amount of time I had to spend talking to some very boring people." Phryne suppressed a grin. "Right. The dead man was called Ellis. He was the travelling head lad for Sholto Needham – he's the trainer of Raspberry Fool. Ellis'd had the job for at least five years, but they didn't get on very well."

Max looked up. "Actually, that's no surprise. Nobody got on with Sholto, I don't think. A good man with horses, a terrible one with people. Ellis was okay, could be a bit snippy with the other lads, but people mostly respected him. He knew what he was about, and things tended to get done right when he was around."

He looked back at his notes. "That's more or less it – oh, except for one thing. A couple of people said they thought that Sholto was in some kind of money trouble. I didn't get much background for that, it was already becoming a bit awkward asking questions, but there was something about a feed bill being missed, and staff complaining about wages."

He crumpled the paper and put it back in his pocket.

"So, what's next, Phryne?" Reaching across the table, he took covered one of her hands with his. "Do you want to stay here and work out a plan? Doesn't seem much point going all the way back to London, and …. I'd love to have you …." The double entendre was very plainly deliberate.

She smiled at him understandingly, and withdrew her hand to her lap.

"No, Max. I'm enormously grateful for your help and your friendship, but that's all I'm after. It's not like the old days;" she gazed reflectively into her cup of tea. "I think I've found something that really matters." She didn't elaborate. This was not the audience.

He was clearly crestfallen, but put a brave face on.

"You can't blame a chap for trying – and we did have fun, didn't we?"

At that, she did laugh gently. "Oh, we did! I don't think the dance floor at the Café Royal ever really recovered …" she grinned at the memory. Then her expression changed, and it was back to business.

"Right, I'm going to go back to London now and do some telephoning. I might even see if my father can recommend a lawyer to help get Jack released. Then tomorrow, I'm going to go and see if I can snoop round Sholto Needham's yard a bit. I'll let you know if I find anything. Wish me luck!"

With a friendly peck on the cheek, she whirled out of his kitchen, leaving Max with a fatuous smile on his face.


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

As she drove at her usual breakneck pace back to Chelsea, Phryne turned over in her mind the steps she should take. By the time she sailed over the Putney Bridge, she was determined to stalk Alastair Warren for any information he might be prepared to disclose over the details of Ellis' death; and was almost reconciled to the idea of contacting her ne'er-do-well father. At least, in the field of legal advice, he was likely to have some useful contacts.

She pulled the Vauxhall wearily into the mews at the back of the townhouse, and entered the house through the kitchen, finding Kitty in the process of shelling peas.

"Miss! You haven't heard?" She leapt to her feet, vegetables flying everywhere.

"No, what?" replied Phryne, mystified that her normally tidy protégé should be so careless.

"It's Mr Jack, Miss!" Phryne paled. "Miss, he's home! Got here an hour or so ago, and went straight to bed – his poor face looks awful, miss …." But the words were said to empty air. Phryne was sprinting up the stairs two at a time.

When she reached the first floor, though, she collected her thoughts and, kicking off her shoes on the landing, tiptoed to the bedroom, before peering around the door which had been left slightly ajar.

He was there. Her Jack. He was in her bed. He was safe. He was home. His poor, poor face perhaps wasn't troubling him so much, because he'd fallen asleep.

Phryne stood at the foot of the bed for long minutes, simply revelling in watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Then she quietly stripped off the red dress, lifted the covers, and climbed in beside him. Resting one hand on his shoulder for the reassurance of contact, she too, closed her eyes.

They still had a murder to solve, but the phone calls could wait.

As the sun was sinking in the west, she felt his shoulder move under her hand, and was instantly awake. She opened her eyes to find his gaze on her, and lifted her hand to skim his cheek, trace his lips; he mirrored her actions, and leaned over to press his lips on hers; then shifted her closer, entwining their legs.

It was surprising how gentle urgency could be.

Afterwards, she lay full length on top of him, which he seemed to find surprisingly comfortable. Tentatively, with the tips of her fingers, she explored his bruise, and then went on to play with his hair, running her hands through it absently.

"Jack, I ….." she hesitated. She'd promised herself she should say something, but now that the time was here, the words wouldn't come.

He didn't appear to mind. He was running his fingernails down her sides and then back up her spine, apparently trying to find a new ticklish spot.

"I had some hard thinking to do when you were in jail." At that, she had his attention. Those gentle eyes were focussed on her with new intensity.

"I suppose … I've always just assumed you would be there – even if "there" was on the other side of the world for a while. That's the thing with rocks – they're pretty reliable," she offered.

He wondered whether he liked being a rock, and decided it was better than being, say, a pebble in her shoe.

"All of a sudden, I had a look at what the world would be like if you weren't in it, and it shook me to my very core. D'you know?" she said conversationally, "I was seriously thinking about breaking you out of jail and flying us both out of the country in the dead of night? It was preferable to the thought of you wrongfully hanging for murder."

He wondered whether she'd considered he might have been guilty; then realised that to imagine the question was relevant was to miss the point of what was clearly a very difficult monologue.

"I like people, Jack. I like having them round me. But for a very long time – really, since Janey died – I haven't let myself need anyone. It's been safer that way. I let people rely on me – Dot, Jane, the rest of my adoptive family – but it's pretty much one way."

"Then you waltzed into my life – quite literally," she smiled, and he acknowledged the point. "And all of a sudden, I've found I need someone, and I didn't get any choice in the matter."

"I suppose what I'm trying to say, Jack, is that I don't want to be without you, and I don't know how to make sure that doesn't happen; but if it means that when you go back to Australia, I come with you, I want to see if I can find a way to leave my family obligations here behind."

He caught her in his arms, then, and rolled them over.

"Thank you," he said simply. And kissed her – very long, and very hard, with a heart that appeared to have swelled to twice its normal size in his chest. There were definitely no tears involved, for either of them. Nary a one. Absolutely not. His thumbs running across her cheekbones were damp for some other reason.

Eventually, they turned up in the dining room, and the ever-patient Kitty produced a casserole that she'd philosophically decided would be better the longer it waited. In very typically Phryne style, Kitty was asked to join them to discuss the case. Jack decided he was dizzy enough just now, and left the wine to the ladies, which made Kitty rather giggly and Phryne more than usually loquacious.

It was confirmed, though, that Phryne and Jack needed to have a look around the Needham stable in the morning, and Phryne agreed regretfully that they should try to be there as soon after first light as possible, to coincide with the training rides which would leave the stables largely empty of people. The concept of being awake at six a.m. two days running filled her with dread, but she acknowledged that waking tomorrow would be infinitely preferable to today's experience. On that note, all three of them retired to bed at a sensible hour, and Good Christian Habits on the part of one (Kitty was moving alarmingly to the opposite extreme of her previous life and showing signs of incipient Methodism) and Sheer Exhaustion on the part of the other two filled the time until the unforgiving alarm.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

This time, Jack drove. He admitted that he was almost certainly still suffering a degree of concussion, but thought that it was about time Phryne had a break; and as he was in charge, the journey was certainly smoother, which helped his headache considerably.

As they arrived in Epsom and consulted the map for Needham's stables, the sun was almost certainly up, but so shrouded by mist that no-one would have been any the wiser. Every so often, they had had to slow for horses making their way to the Downs for exercise; a typical hazard of life in this part of the world, and no real hardship for those who could enjoy watching thoroughbred racehorses do what they did best – moving.

They timed their arrival at Needham's well - the place was practically deserted. Mindful of Warren's warning, they agreed that Phryne would check the house, while Jack would stay at the car and keep an eye on the yard, raising a warning if it looked as though she might be disturbed. He had, she insisted, her full permission to run away rather than be caught – neither of them was interested in having Jack behind bars again, even if only as an accessory.

Lock pick to the fore, Phryne was soon in command of the house, the office and most of the records. The safe took a little longer, and proved ill worth the effort – a couple of dusty share certificates for a firm that had gone bust the previous year, and a jewellery box with scant offerings remaining told a story more by what was lacking than what was there.

Rather than tear pages from the ledgers, she contented herself with making brief notes on the balances at the bottom of each page, the dates of them and then scanning for any large transactions. She'd just finished tidying up when the whistle came from Jack, and she stood back against the wall, watching a line of horses come up the road to the yard. Swiftly, she locked the front door and positioned herself in the kitchen; as the last horse passed, she slipped out and crouched to lock the door behind her – a delay, but worth doing to dress the scene just right.

A minute later, she was in the passenger seat beside Jack, who decided to take them a decent distance from the site before asking any questions. Driving to the edge of the town, he pulled in to the verge, switched off the engine and turned to her.

"Well?"

She considered her notes. "Do you know, Jack, it's odd. There was everything and there was absolutely nothing. Everything, because I saw ledgers, race entries, wage dockets – everything you would expect from a working yard. Nothing, because Needham has been making losses for as long as I looked, and there's nothing to show for that."

She stopped, and considered for a moment.

"Except for the fact that he has a safe that appears to be more ornament than use, I suppose. Two share certificates for a company that my dear father" she exchanged a glance with Jack "put a chunk of his investments funds with, and promptly lost. And a jewellery box which was probably worth more than its contents."

She gave Jack a direct look. "If you were looking for someone who has a major passion in his life but is hopeless at paying for it, I would say Sholto Needham was your man. And believe me, I know the type. Why that would drive him to murder, though, is a mystery to me. A racehorse trainer with a sideline in contract killing is a bit unlikely."

She shrugged and peered out of the car window. Spotting a pub, she shot Jack a sidelong glance. "We could have a drink and mull it over if you like – perhaps even get some local knowledge?"

He inclined his head, rejoicing in the fact that he could now do so without feeling as though red hot irons were being driven through it.

"I can't deny a drink would be welcome. What's it called? Oh."

With poker face, Jack steered the car to rest outside the Cock and Pig.

"I have nothing to say but this – it's your round, Phryne."


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

It would be unfair to say that Phryne snickered as she walked into the snug. The landlord may have been unaccustomed to serving ladies, but he wasn't given much choice over serving this one, and her glass of gin and Jack's pint of mild were delivered with only a smattering of suspicion.

Having got over the initial shock, though, the landlord was clearly much emboldened, and further sought to enhance his establishment's fashionable credentials by noting that it was Nice Out. Phryne concurred that it was warm for the time of year. The landlord waxed expansive with the assertion that it would Rain Later. Phryne hoped not. The landlord, social niceties now obviously a watchword, thrust his hand across the tap and announced "Arthur."

Phryne grasped it firmly and said "Phryne".

Jack, who'd selected a quiet corner table to enjoy his pint, appeared to choke, and was politely ignored by those at the bar.

"Is it always this quiet, Arthur?" asked Phryne.

"No, Frannie," (cue more snuffling from the table in the corner), "not this time of day – but then, there'll be some sore heads round here today."

"Oh?" Phryne was clearly feeling chatty. Leaning both elbows on the counter, she was to all appearances settled in for a good gossip. "Big night last night, was it?"

"I'll say!" Arthur chuckled. "The lads from Needham's had their pay day, and they were out to make up for a bit of lost time, I reckon. 'Course, they were raising a glass to Ned Ellis too. That were a terrible thing" he shook his head disapprovingly.

"Who's Ned Ellis?" asked Phryne, disingenuously.

"Lad from Needham's yard. Come to a bad end, they say. Stuck on a pitchfork. Eh!" Arthur suddenly recalled the gentility of his audience and peered at her with a worried frown.

Phryne, however, showed all signs of ghoulish alacrity. " _Really_! Oh, that's _awful_! But surely it was a bit funny for the rest of the lads to come to the pub, then?"

"Well, mebbe if they'd been paid in the last month, they wouldn't've had ter wait till last night" said Arthur philosophically. "Leastways, I got their slates cleaned off, so I was happy. Catch me chalking up pints for stable lads again, mind," he said darkly.

"And the lads hadn't been paid for all that time?" Phryne asked sympathetically, sipping her gin.

"Nah. Some of us reckoned that Sholto was in the suds, but he must've come about all right, if he gave them all their due yesterday," said Arthur, with a bewildering mixture of metaphors.

"Well, I'm glad you got the money back, Arthur," Phryne said generously, "and I'm sorry we can't stay longer, but my driver's wife has a pig's cheek waiting for him on the stove and he'll be in trouble if I make him late."

Her driver was clearly already in considerable trouble, and wordlessly held the door open for his client.

"Bye, bye, Arthur! Lovely chatting to you!" called Phryne gaily as she sauntered out.

The tears were running down Jack's face as they got into the car.

"So, can I call you Fran for short, now?" he asked when he was once more in a position to speak.

"Only if you're prepared to live on pig's cheeks from now on," she said austerely. "Anyway, I want to go over to Max's and pull everything together. There's a story here, and we've got all the pieces, I'm sure. It's down there, and turn left when you get to the green"

Jack was less than thrilled at the idea of spending more time with Adonis, but dutifully let in the clutch.


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

"So, you're sure – when you saw Ellis, there was no pitchfork?"

Phryne, Max and Jack were gathered around Max's kitchen table once more, and running over and over the sequence of events.

"No," replied Jack firmly. "There was the argument I saw in the unsaddling enclosure; but by the time I got down the stables, the bloke I was following had vanished. All I heard was the sound of yelling, and then a scuffle, and I rounded the corner to see Ellis lying on the dung heap. That must have been when I was hit."

"Someone hit you with the pitchfork, planted your prints on the shaft and then stuck Ellis with it," she ruminated.

"Next thing we know, Needham has plenty of cash; but why would killing Ellis get it for him? I can't see a motive. The only way it works is if Ellis found out how Needham got the cash, and had to be silenced."

Phryne slammed a fist on the table in frustration.

"What is it? What am I missing?"

Jack sighed, sat back and said "Why not just talk through the whole scene from when you arrived. Describe everything you can remember, even the pointless details. Maybe something'll pop out."

She looked at him for a moment, then clasped her hands on the table in front of her, fixing her gaze on them, and began to speak in disjointed phrases.

"I ran round the corner. Policeman slightly behind me to my left. Jack on the ground. Ellis on the dung heap. The pitchfork through his back. A wheelbarrow on its side. Bucket with water in. Dung heap - manure and vegetables. Green veg. Cabbage or something."

At this, Max looked up sharply. "Can't have been cabbage."

Phryne broke out of her reverie. "Well, I think it was. Why not?"

"Some of my string are fond of a bit of cabbage, but they get it as a treat at the end of a long day's work, and only if I know they can stand it. You know what brassicas are like - they can be gassy. There's absolutely no way that you would be giving a racehorse cabbage on a race day. You'd be mad."

Phryne's eyes widened. "So it was sabotage? Someone was trying to nobble one of the horses? Max, it makes perfect sense! Ellis caught Needham at it, and suffered the consequences - and Jack was in the wrong place at the wrong time, so Needham coshed him and put him in the frame for the murder." She hesitated. "But why would Needham nobble his own horse?"

"That bit's so easy, even I can do it," said Jack. "He's seriously short of money – could even be facing ruin, as far as we know. So, a bookie finds out, and comes to him with an offer – make sure his best horse loses, just once, and there'll be a payoff. Enough to get the feed bill and wages covered, he can get back on his feet again."

"It's a bit chancy" said Max, doubtfully. "I mean, he can't have known it would have the effect on Raspberry Fool in the way and at the time it did."

"Perhaps it didn't matter how certain he was," suggested Phryne. "All he had to do was deliver a loss on one occasion – hasn't Raspberry Fool been having an unbeaten season so far?" Both men nodded.

"In fact, the longer the bookies had to wait for the loss, the bigger the win – if the punters thought she couldn't lose, they'd just keep piling in. Who knows, perhaps Needham's been trying to nobble her before now, and only just succeeded – which would explain his cash flow problems." Phryne was warming to her theme now.

Jack thought it was time for a dose of cold water.

"It's a good theory – even a possible one – but it's a huge leap to get from there to the murder of Ned Ellis. Without some sort of proof of a link to the bookies, the case would fall flat."

At his words, Max sighed and slumped on the table, head on his arms.

Phryne, on the other hand, sat up suddenly and reached for her handbag.

"Hold – on – a – minute!" she exclaimed, and pulled out her notebook.

"Max, do you have any records of Needham's results in the past few months?" she asked. "In particular, if I give you some dates, could you tell me whether he'd just had an unplaced horse that should have won?"

"Well, yes," Max raised his head. "I could probably do it off the top of my head, to be honest – got a memory for that kind of thing."

With building excitement, Phryne leafed through her notes from Needham's ledger, recording the biggest transactions. Max retrieved his calendar from the wall, tying in the dates she called out with race meetings. From there, he came up with a list of Needham losers which Jack, with dawning respect for the "buffoon", noted down.

As she finished her list, Phryne had one final question.

"So, who would 'P.B.' be, then, Max?"

Max looked at her as though she was mad. "P.B.? Well, it's just P.B. isn't it?" he replied. The other two looked at him askance. He glanced from one to the other defensively.

"P.B.! Paul Brothers! They're just P.B., they're one of the biggest bookmaking chains at the track!"

He caught up with their surmise.

"Oh."

Jack turned to Phryne.

"Please, in the interests of my continued absence from a jail cell, might I be allowed to ring Alastair Warren? I think even _his_ team will be able to join the dots on this one …"

His inamorata gave gracious permission.


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

Sholto Needham made a very brief attempt to pass the blame for Ellis' death on to the Paul Brothers. It wasn't the most foolish thing he'd ever done in his life, but it would almost certainly prove to be the last foolish thing.

By Saturday, Jack's bruise was exhibiting myriad colours of the rainbow, but as long as no-one touched it, he wasn't minding too much. To be fair, very little was bothering him much because Phryne, having set her mind on a plan, was following it through with single-minded fervour.

A lawyer had been rooted out – no connection of her father's, but rather a suggestion from Chief Inspector Warren, who had decided that the sooner they both left the country, the quieter his life would be. A specialist in family affairs, he speedily drew up a trust which would allow Phryne's mother to control an income that her father couldn't touch. It wasn't likely to be proof against his best ingenuity, but at the very least the structure would give him pause for thought before trying to circumvent it.

Phryne and Kitty had had a long, and rather tearful talk. Much as Kitty worshipped her saviour (Phryne, in this instance - her religious fervour hadn't built quite that far) she couldn't face the thought of travelling to the other side of the world. A telephone call to Lady Fisher had Phryne driving Kitty up to the country house, though, and a role as second housemaid was secured. Phryne bethought herself, before leaving, to have a quiet word with the third footman, who assured her that he would look out for poor Kitty as though she was his own sister. Given the way "poor Kitty" had gazed at him when she first arrived in the servants' hall, Phryne had every hope that the sibling aspect of the relationship would be buried quite quickly, and instructed Kitty to be open about the way in which she had arrived in England (and informed the housekeeper herself, to get the most important member of the household on side).

A stateroom was booked for their new favourite ship, the _Strathaird_ , on the following Thursday.

Port out.

As they finished closing up the rental of the Chelsea property, they decided to make one more trip down to Epsom. A bottle of champagne was consumed around the table in Max's kitchen, and after some rather extravagant hugs (Phryne having consumed most of the champagne), Jack and Phryne started to walk back to the Vauxhall.

"Jack?" He turned to see Max holding up a hand in supplication. He walked back over to join the trainer; Phryne glanced back, but continued strolling down the driveway, humming a tune which might have been "A Life On The Ocean Wave" if one listened closely. And didn't worry too much about consistency of key.

"There's something I think you should know. It's about Phryne." Jack waited, but his expression had become stony. He tipped his head back and narrowed his eyes.

"Well?"

Max hesitated, then pursed his lips.

"When you were in jail ... I made a move on her." Stony became glacial.

"Oh, I could see there was something going on between the two of you, but this is Phryne. She's always been a butterfly, it's part of her - unique charm." Jack's fists were now unconsciously clenching - he wasn't aware, but Max glanced down and noticed the whitening of Jack's knuckles. He smiled ruefully.

"Jack, she very gently and kindly turned me down flat." Max's expression became a little wistful. "I don't know what it is you and she have going, but I can tell you there's no room for anyone else on board that particular ride. So I suppose what I have to say is - you're clearly the best man, as far as she's concerned; though she probably won't have told you so. You've won quite a prize. I wish you all the luck in the world; you're going to need it. If I thought for a moment you didn't realise how precious she is, I'd not be backing off."

He stood a little straighter, and gave a twisted smile.

"Look after her, Jack."

He held out his hand. Jack, utterly wrongfooted, took it and shook it firmly; Max's left hand went to grasp Jack's shoulder, and the two men exchanged a nod of understanding, before dropping hands. Jack took a couple of steps back, his eyes still on Max, before turning to jog after Phryne's departing footsteps. He caught her up, and slung an arm casually about her waist, looking down to meet her absent smile. Because - having come after her - he was going to _look_ after her.

He was going to look after a flamboyant, self-assured, sharpshooting, glamorous, generous, determined, brave, adventurous aviatrix.

With whom he was about to board a boat to Australia.

What could possibly go wrong?


End file.
